


They Don’t Write Songs About The Ones That Don’t Break Your Rules

by ever_neutral



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-07
Updated: 2011-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-17 22:27:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ever_neutral/pseuds/ever_neutral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Then she remembers that yes, in fact, yes, this is her part. And it’s the one he trusts her to do, it’s the space he doesn’t trust anyone else to fill.</p><p> </p><p>[a retrospective]</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Don’t Write Songs About The Ones That Don’t Break Your Rules

**01.**

He makes her cry within the first two months of school. And it’s awful, because she shouldn’t care, and she doesn’t care, she doesn’t care about his words, because they don’t mean anything - even as they cut right to the bone, and she’s reminded of how _pathetically breakable_ she is.

She cannot forgive him for this. She promises she never will.

**02.**

She leaves that bathroom stall, slowly, because it still hurts, and the proof is there in the redness of her eyes and the tear tracks on her cheeks. And the monster greets her, the first she’s really encountered, and she realises that she might die here, in this cold empty bathroom, alone. It’s the sort of ending that would come as a shock, but an expected one.

What really truly _does_ shock, is the sight of him stumbling through the door, wand nervously raised, just a step behind his famously more heroic friend (whom she might have expected).

But this is a twist. This is not the role she’s assigned to him, these are the not the lines she’s learnt off by heart. He’s taking her words, the ones she made _sure_ to pronounce _just right_ – and he’s delivering them better than she could have written them.

For the first time in her life, she is unsure how this will end.

  
\--

  
**03.**

They’ve been friends for a long enough time for it to hurt _just that much_ when a silly squabble over _pets_ , of all things, leads to him not talking to her for weeks.

She considers apologising - don’t misunderstand, she considers doing so many times, if only because it might restore things, and anything would be preferable to this stony silence, and you know things are _really_ wrong when the two of them have nothing to say to one another.

But then she remembers that there is nothing to apologise for, there simply isn’t any _proof_ , it just wouldn’t be logical, and _rationality_ in these matters ( _of love, friendship and bravery_ ) is what’s really necessary to hold on to.

Particularly when his argument boils down to the idea that she’s a heartless vicious monster who thinks nothing of tearing other living things apart. It’s an utterly nonsensical proposition, a disappointing play coming from him of all people, and yet one that manages to defeat her entirely.

(Part of her wants to laugh at the idea that _she’d_ be the one responsible for ripping the other apart.)

**04.**

It’s only after it’s over -- the stand-off, this stalemate, this lull waiting for one of them to _break_ (and she _does_ , and it’s sort of embarrassing to throw her arms around him so tearfully, but there was never much dignity in love anyway, though she doesn’t dwell on that) – does she realise she’s been holding her breath, and at his bracing words ( _”You won’t have to do all the work alone this time, Hermione. I’ll help”_ ), she exhales.

And it dawns on her that this is not just a game anymore.

  
\--

  
**05.**

She’d thought that there could be nothing worse than that first _incident_ , his verbal reminder of her perpetual loneliness, but this – this pathetic excuse for a romantic invitation is like a slap in the face. Oh, he has outdone himself.

And it’s for this reason that she decides to blame him instead of herself for her next slip: _“Just because it's taken you three years to notice, Ron, doesn't mean no one else has spotted I'm a girl!”_ Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice her mistake, which she guesses is a blessing of sorts (though with _him_ it’s difficult to tell, and the outcome of that first _incident_ back in their first year has taught her that).

So she has the time to draw up a list for herself, and by the time she’s finished making it, she is certain that even if his proposition hadn’t been so utterly weak, and even if someone else hadn’t _spotted_ first, the answer would always be no, and the solution to the problem would never be him.

(Especially when he’s the cause of it. But she doesn’t dwell on that.)

The idea of them actually _dancing_ together is preposterous, anyway. They’d fit all wrong, their timing would be completely off, and he would doubtless step on her toes a dozen times because _this is who they are_ , after all.

And should they ever be in the position of being face-to-face, actually touching and connecting, her eyes would ( _misguidedly_ ) find his, only for him to look away.

Or the other way around. They have always taken turns to make the wrong move.

**06.**

The next time she slips, it’s a far more grievous mistake, one that even Harry is privy to, and she doesn’t know how she will ever get over this failure. She’d nearly succeeded too, but just like that, her adamant plans - to surprise everybody, to _enjoy this night_ \- are in ruins, and just a few cutting words were enough to undo them. The damage is done, the holes in her armour are plain for all to see, and she has no choice but to retreat with the last scraps of her dignity.

“Well – that just proves – completely missed the point –“ She hears him sputter behind her, but she doesn’t care, the damage is done, she doesn’t care.

Her only remote comfort is that he is just as undone as she is.

It’s no victory.

  
\--

  
**07.**

“Gee, Harry’s been gone a long time, hey.”

She feels herself blushing. “Well, it looked like he was going to talk with Cho for a bit.”

She feels his gaze on her. “Right. Well.” He coughs nervously for a bit, and then there’s silence.

They stay like that for a while, until finally he breaks the ice again. “Be weird if they start, you know…” He trails off, and she guesses it’s up to her to fill in the blanks. _What are the missing pieces, Ron? What are you not telling me?_

“Yes, I suppose,” she replies.

“I mean… D’you think he’ll start not caring about us so much?” He speaks carefully, and there’s something beneath his words that she senses is begging to come out.

She feels a flash of annoyance, because it’s not _her role_ to dig his meaning out for him, and it’s so unfair that he expects her to do that, and _make your own meaning, for goodness’ sake._

Then she remembers that yes, in fact, yes, this _is_ her part. And it’s the one he trusts her to do, it’s the space he doesn’t trust anyone else to fill.

“That will never happen,” she answers him.

  
\--

  
**08.**

She sees him wrapped around Lavender Brown, and she doesn’t know how to battle the fury in her veins, and worse yet, the coiling despair in her gut. The simultaneous reactions leave her at a loss, and to add insult to injury, she has lost him to a girl she wasn’t even aware she was competing against.

(She recognises she has only been made aware that she is competing at all, yes, but it doesn’t matter, because she should have known earlier, she should have _known_. She has never been so slow on the uptake.)

She has never felt more disappointed in herself.

**09.**

“I’m really not playing as well as I should be,” Harry declares, morosely, over his Astronomy notes. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Yes, well, we don’t always live up to our own standards, Harry,” she says, and her voice is clipped.

He is probably taken aback at the level of unconcealed bitterness in her voice, but she doesn’t have the will to reassure him it will fade. She doesn’t have it in her to play the role she’s supposed to.

(She simply can’t do anything right anymore.)

Ron Weasley approaches the table with Seamus Finnigan, trading some stupid joke or other. She is too furious to see if it’s even funny. She grabs her books, none too gently, and marches swiftly away in the other direction. She is careful to take her dignity with her.

“What the hell is her problem,” she hears him say in an irritated manner, faintly, somewhere behind her.

She thinks she might like to wait and hear if he figures it out, but the door is just ahead of her, and so she does the only thing she _can_ do, and she leaves through it.

**10.**

He’s come to join them this time, to spend time with his old friends for once, instead of with _her_ , and _well done Ron Weasley, a hundred points, for knowing what really matters after all, even if you’re not remotely close to figuring it out._

She feels simultaneously gleeful and disgusted, and it doesn’t make sense at all, that she should be compelled to sway towards him and recoil at the same time, and frankly, she is sick of the contradiction.

(She’d rather have the disgust.)

He’s moaning about Quidditch again, which is thoroughly predictable of course. And he’s fretting about all the _pressure_ on him, and how he doesn’t think he’ll be able to do it, and he’s looking for some sort of _answer_ , but she knows that any attempt at showing him she _cares_ will either be ignored or spat on, because that’s the easy way out in these matters, and she’s beginning to see the appeal.

So she laughs, short and cruel, murmurs a thoroughly insincere “good luck”, and both boys look at her in utter amazement, because neither of them knew she had this in her, you see. She allows herself to feel smug about this card she has been hiding, that she has totally defeated him with.

“You know what, Hermione?” he says, and she waits for what he’ll do next.

(Because what’s a couple more seconds on top of the years she’s been waiting, and it’s impossible, unbearable, that she has been _waiting for what he’ll do next_ , all the time she has known him.)

“I hate you,” comes the second part of his response. It’s a thoroughly underwhelming shot, disappointing really, but she can’t help hitting back, because she is who she is, and they are who they are.

“I hate you right back,” she shoots back, and she is proud of the conviction in her voice, and the sharp snap with which she closes her book and slams it down. She is proud of the steel in her limbs as she walks away, and she is proud of herself for not looking back.

**11.**

It’s true, she has always had her pride, and she’s held tight to it in the knowledge that it is the one thing that will never leave her. And she has never realised what a sin that pride is until she’s staring at his unconscious body in the bleakness of the hospital wing.

**12.**

To be quite honest, she’s not even sure if she’s completely forgiven him, except that there’s been enough pain and separation the last few months, and he at least _owes her an apology_ for that.

Then he mutters her name in his sleep, barely decipherable.

It’s no apology, and this is no perfect reunion, with their surroundings of hospital beds and the various bystanders witnessing their dysfunction.

But ( _she is surprised to realise_ ) she has long stopped defining perfection the way she used to.

  
\--

  
**13.**

She curls herself up in her sheets as the wind howls around them, just mere inches away - and really, Harry might be grateful for her foresight and thorough packing, but the walls of this tent ( _this makeshift fortress she has built_ ) are far too thin to protect them much. This is the story of her life.

And she is ready to accept it now, here in the near-dark, with the tinny radio crackling in the corner, with one of her best friends gone, and her other best friend not looking at her, and the wind screaming like a banshee mourning their lost love: She is not, never has been, and never will be the maiden in the ivory tower, and her walls crumbled long ago.

**14.**

And then he comes back, and he’s full of maddening apologies and preposterous stories and unbearably sincere remorse. And he talks about her voice leading him back, just like something out of a magic fable. And it’s preposterous, because they might live in a world of magic, but there has never been much elegance in their dance, because she is who she is, and they are who they are, and they don’t write love stories about the ones that never get it right.

“And what exactly did I say?” she asks.

And she waits, for the answer that will come but will inevitably fail to answer anything, because there has never been an answer, and if _she_ hasn’t been able to figure it out, then no one will. She looks at him, and she waits.

And he replies, “My name.”

And she thinks, _Oh._

_So that was it._

  
*


End file.
